


To Be Forgiven

by Alphatsar



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: M/M, hurt/comfort but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphatsar/pseuds/Alphatsar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftermath of "Feast of the Stone." The Doctor needs to work on apologizing to the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Forgiven

**Author's Note:**

> An old work I tidied up for posting. There is hardly anything for this pairing as it is. I hope this atrocity is forgivable.
> 
> Takes place after the "Feast of the Stone" which can be found here:  
> http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/vampires/newstory/scottwright.shtml

To Be Forgiven

 

“You don't get to switch friends off when things get tough,” Alison’s words floated around the Doctor’s thoughts. They were fleeting at first as the first hint of alcohol burned down his throat, but then the words seemed to press against his skull, erupting in a physical headache.  
He was unsure how to feel at that moment. He regretted having used the Master in such a horrible manner, but it really had been the only way. The vampirism would have continued until, like all its prior victims, Alison would have been sacrificed at the altar. Her blood would just be a droplet of many others, her predecessors long forgotten moans an echo in history, and she would join them among the corpses.  


The Doctor settled into the chair Alison had previously occupied, but unlike her, he felt nauseated and his body trembled and quivered as it sat in the upholstery. The plush cushion did little to soothe him, and he took comfort in his drink, utilizing it to nurse his unstable persona.  


The man wondered if the shudders racking his body were the after shocks of the rushed adrenaline from his attempts to save Alison, or of his own fears magnified by the vamperic rock. Or were they the aftershocks of having all of the Master’s memories, all of his brutalities, surging through his body like a connection? All the blood, gore, and carnage rushed through the Doctor’s mind, faintly muting Alison’s comments on the nature of the Master. He made a minute twitch of the eye, before reclaiming his dark, stoic expression.  


Trying to drown the brutal imagery out, even for a fleeting moment, the Doctor took another sip of his drink, the low hum of the TARDIS providing his only form of companionship in his atrabilious state.  


Yet among the records of bloodlust and savagery, the Doctor caught glimpses from a simpler time, of eons past. Of two children chasing each other in the wavering, tall scarlet-red grass. Of the crimson blades yielding to two wrestling youths, adolescence still flowing through their mindset as they tumbled trough the field. Of the reverberations of their combined laughter echoing within the waves of the grass, unheard by any other, the tall grass providing a scarlet shield from the ever scornful glares of others.  


The Doctor shook his head to escape the memories, trading them once more for a sip of his drink. He glared off distantly, staring at no particular item. He blamed himself for the misfortune that befell both children, of the innocence he shattered for the sake of his own adventures and dreams.  


The TARDIS pressed against his troubled mind, caressing his thoughts soothingly in a manner akin to a mother tenderly calming a child. The Doctor remained petulant and gruff externally, but already the blood splattered memories from the Master’s own point of view drifted to the back of his mind like his own tainted recollections. He remembered once again that he was not the only soul to have suffered such traumas.  


He sagged somewhat into the chair, his stiff figure loosening like tightly bounded springs being gently uncoiled. He sighed as some tension left his shoulders and he took comfort from the TARDIS rather than his alcohol.  


Silently, the Doctor relayed some of his fears and concerns on the current imbroglio that had transpired between the Master and himself once again. She understood, but like Alison, she reminded the Doctor that the Master still retained his own feelings, and that the minor cuts of memory that included the two together were still a part of those emotions.  


“I know,” he said at last, an exasperated sigh drifting past his slightly parted lips. “But what should I do?”  


He closed his eyes and sought out the TARDIS with his mind again, but she shied away much to his surprise. However, the soft feeling of cotton resting over his chilled form startled him more. He almost jumped as the blanket was draped over his figure in a manner that suggested tenderness and care. When he looked up, he found the Master retreating from his finished task, taking up residence in the chair opposite the Doctor, as he always had since he came to travel with the man.  


The Doctor swallowed thickly. Alison’s words reverberated against his skull ten fold, and a sudden new nervous wave of nausea swirled around his churning stomach. What should he do? How could he apologize to the man without seeming aloof or epithetical?  


The Master did not even spare the man a glimpse as he picked up a discarded novel from a nearby coffee table. He lifted the book up to reading level and resumed from where he had left off last night, acting as if he had not been used as a conduit for the Doctor’s means to save his companion. Also, like the Doctor, he had his own drink, a slender wine glass filled with rich aubergine liquor—wine the Doctor assured himself. Not blood.  


The Master took one sip before placing it down on the stand, and continued his progress with his novel, unaware of the Doctor’s mental turmoil and conflicted feelings after the whole ordeal started.  


The Doctor glanced down at the very blanket he had given Alison to comfort her, finding that it was now wrapped around him for much the same purpose. Then it dawned on him.  


“You’re really slow on the uptake today, are you not, my dear Doctor…” The robotic man purred in his usual sultry tone. It was like silk had been poured out of his mouth every time he spoke, as if he were trying to seduce and impress all who heard it. Yet to the Doctor it meant one thing.  


He had been forgiven, but now it was his turn to apologize.  


Alison had a point, then. He was a clever man but right now he was being very foolish.  


"Master, I just--"  


"No need for that, dear," the interjection came out smoothly and was hardly rushed. If anything the Master was rather impassive. In fact the man rose from his seat, book discarded once more at the armrest. He approached the other man and paused only when he was just mere inches from his seated figure. Only then did he lower himself, placing his arms on either side of the seat to angle his face closer to the Doctor's.  


The calm facade disappeared momentarily and slipped into something reminesent of the blood-lust memories from the conduit.  


"But if you ever think to use me like that again--for a human no less--I will make your exile even more hellish." Those eyes bored down upon the Doctor's, deep and hard, and so full of furious intent. It turned out that had been the calm before the storm.  


The cold gray eyes seem to be gauging the Doctor, testing him. In return, steely blue returned the unwavering gaze. Neither was going to apologize for what happened--neither the Master for his past atrocities nor the Doctor for his betrayal in the past or actions today. And thus the game continued as it always had. No apologies, just moving forward, ungainly but surely steadily.  


The Doctor bowed his head in acceptance.  


"Good," a silky, deep voice acknowledged. Then a hand cupped the Doctor's face pulling it upwards to meet the other's lips. It was hardly out of feverish want or even aggressive. It was chaste but every bit like coming home. Now he was forgiven.  


A soft snicker echoed among the walls. "Finally."  



End file.
